


Carry On, Teach

by TheDarkFlygon



Series: Glass Cannon Blues [3]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Black 2 & White 2 | Pokemon Black 2 & White 2 Versions
Genre: Appendicitis, Bad Decisions, Character Study, Devotion, Gen, Headcanon, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Minor Original Character(s), School, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Reflection, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23270539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkFlygon/pseuds/TheDarkFlygon
Summary: He had everything planned to a T: his classes were ready, his students were prepared and even his outfit was on point. There was no way his inspection could go wrong: he had anticipated every single possible outcome.Then he realized his stomach pains and nausea couldn't just be due to stress.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: Glass Cannon Blues [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657786
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Inside Scald

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote something similar to this a couple weeks ago, but the setting was too good to pass up, and I've honestly run out of energy to prevent myself from following my niche dreams. We all need a distraction from civilization possibly collapsing, right? (It's an exaggeration btw).  
> I got the idea for this like a week ago and it won't leave my brain, so I decided I needed to write it down. You're welcome, I suppose.  
> (I still don't know which canon I'm following, so consider it's like ENS and it's a very grey zone)

Well, here it is. The grand day of the year. The one he cannot possibly miss for any reason, the one who has knotted his stomach for the past few days and made falling asleep difficult. The sun has once again risen on this peaceful city so it could happen.

He’s prepared for this day ever since receiving the letter announcing him about his inspection and when it’d happen. Everything is ready: his lesson, his notes, the homework he gave out, the exact things he’ll do to make class lively and interesting. All he has to do is to prove he can do something he’s (supposedly) good at, it should be all good. There’s nothing which can prevent him from passing the inspection and be officially called a teacher deserving of the name.

On second thought, nothing but _himself_ will.

The abdominal pain he had yesterday, that he thought was due to stress (and still is), has grown worse during the night. The anxious nausea he had yesterday hasn’t gotten better. He probably shouldn’t be sweating this much, even if his mind is less than peaceful about what’s heading his way. He doesn’t have the time or freedom to give it, so he gulps down a couple painkillers and goes on with the day.

Preparing is harder than it should be. The pain makes bending to get dressed much more difficult, as expected. He hesitates to put on his tie right as his fingers dance around to knot it around his neck, but still goes forward with it despite the suffocating feeling: it’s his _inspection_ , he needs to be dressed for the part. He doesn’t want to look neglectful, does he? The blazer he now side-eyes is _mandatory_ , so it goes on too. It’s just one day: it’ll be fine.

Walking to school doesn’t make the situation better. He’d usually go out in the morning, breathe in the fresh morning air and let the breeze unwind his anxieties away; but there’s none of that, today. He’s too stressed for a gentle wind to fix it and the pain gets worse when he’s moving. These are less than ideal teaching conditions, this much he’s going to state right now; but the inspection doesn’t care about that. He’s better off brushing it off and pulling through it as much as he possibly can.

Getting to the actual school may have been a pain in multiple meanings of the word, yet he knows for a fact it’s only the beginning. He’ll need to teach with a fire burning in his body as if everything was good: worrying his students is absolutely out of the question. Speaking of questions, he should read over his notes to make sure everything is in order and ready to go, as he’ll only have this as a safety net today. Perhaps he should stop by the nurse’s office before going to his classroom…

With how bad and tired he’s already feeling, almost dragging his feet against the tiled ground he stares at as not to let the nausea win over him, he can’t go into the lounge and expect not to get asked a few questions. Since he needs to preserve his energy, or at least whatever of it that isn’t getting eaten by the pain, he just can’t waste time or strength on that. He’ll just make a stop by the infirmary and get on with the day, that’s the only way he’ll survive this.

It doesn’t seem like Angela is very pleased to see him. She has her arms crossed and a dejected expression on her face, pouting with frowning eyebrows.

“I don’t wanna sound mean or anything, but, seriously, what in the _ever-loving Distortion World_ are you doing here?”

“Good morning to you too, Angela…”

His voice sounds snappy, and it’s because it is. He’s got no patience to deal with her witty remarks today. Quite ironic, for someone like him think about someone else. Somewhat hypocritical, he’d guess; but he’s just asking for medicine, she has no reason to sound and look this displeased over it.

“Seriously, Cheren, have you seen yourself in a mirror? You look like Giratina just paid you a visit!”

“I _can’t_ stay home today… Do you have medicine against nausea?”

Angela stares at him for a little too long but eventually spins around on her stool to open her drawer and get a bottle of pills from it.

“You’re certain you can’t postpone that? I’m not exaggerating when I say you look awful.”

“I have my _inspection_ , Angela. I can’t… I can’t postpone that.”

Her eyes flash with compassion, for a quick moment.

“Give me your hand.” He does just as instructed, receiving a couple pills in the middle of his palm. “It’s really because you’re in dire need of a quick fix.”

“Thank you,” he says as he gulps them with a provided glass of water.

“Good luck, Cheren. You’re gonna need it.”

He leaves the infirmary right after this strange exchange. The pain is still raging in his body, only growing worse by the step. Still, it’s not like he has a choice: this day is much too important for any of its contents to be transferred to another day. That’s the sad truth of the matter and it’s not like he’ll be able to flee from it. He can only brace himself for a long, painful day of work…

Writing things on the board is a chore. Not that it’s supposed to be: it’s one of his favourite parts of the day. Grab a cup of coffee, check his locker in the lounge, chat with the colleagues present in the room at that moment, prepare class by writing what needs to be featured on the board before the day truly starts, and watch the students pour into the classroom. Ah, it’s usually such a serene routine, nothing could go wrong with it, right? Wrong. _Again_.

If he stretches his right arm, it causes his _abdominal_ pain to flare up. That’s less than convenient when he’s right-handed and needs his hand to do his job, but he grits his teeth and pulls through it: first he prepares his class, then he passes the inspection, and then he can breathe. Maybe this isn’t as bad as he thinks it is and it’ll just go away. Maybe it’s just stress. It must be nothing but stress twisting his insides together, making him nauseous and causing him to feel all sorts of miniature heat waves. It can’t be _anything_ worse than that anyway.

Eventually, after almost shattering his dentition from how much he clenches his jaw, he finishes writing all he has to. The numb-like thump has become a repetitive stabbing right into his abdomen, over and over again, quicker and quicker, hotter and hotter. It burns from the inside, as senseless as it sounds. How could one burn themselves on the other side of their skin, after all? Did he accidentally inhale a still burning candle without realizing? No, that sounds even more ridiculous…

It doesn’t make the situation look any better. He’s now sitting at the desk, barely able to register who enters with a hello and who enters in silence. At least, the students listened to what he told them yesterday: nobody is skipping, everyone has gotten their work done, they’re taking this as seriously as he is. That’s quite literally the first positive thing that has happened this far today.

As the class nicely fills up, with only one seat remaining empty (poor Lily has caught the flu), a small old man and a younger, taller one (although he’s still around twenty or thirty years older than he is) appear in the doorframe. They don’t need to introduce themselves for him to quickly guess these are the guests he’s been so adamant on welcoming, even against the predicament he’s found himself in this morning.

Walking up to them gives him the time and opportunity to put on his best welcoming stance. Slight smile (not too big), straight and no-nonsense demeanour, warm tone and polite words. All he needs to do is to be his teacher self and hide what’s eating him from the inside from these unknown pairs of eyes. He can do it, he can pull that off.

“Well, you do look as young as I’ve been told, Mr Cheren,” the inspector says with a comforting voice. His tone doesn’t match the idea he had made for himself during the night. “I’m Walter, and this is my assistant Roger. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Welcome, sir”, he manages to respond without sounding weird. At least, he thinks so. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.”

They shake hands, first with the inspector, then with the assistant. A sudden stab makes him clutch his interlocutor’s hand a little too much to anyone’s liking. He nonetheless welcomes them into the room in front of the students’ curious, tracking eyes.

“Please take a seat in the back row.”

He watches them both make their way there telling hello to the class as he, himself, takes a deep breath in. _You can’t mess this up, Cheren._

Just like a performer, all eyes are on him. Also like a performer, any failure on his part is sure to get noticed by the sharp attention his audience is giving him. This is no rehearsal, it’s show day, and he won’t be allowed a slipup if he can’t fix it right afterwards. It’s something he’s done time and time again – and better and better shall he add –, it’d be stupid for him to fail at his job on the one time where he’s getting evaluated on it. Again, he _can’t_ fail, so he better rise his head up.

He’s learnt his text by heart, so all there is left to do is putting together the tainted glass picture shard by shard. It’s like incarnating a character that isn’t exactly himself but an idealized version of his own person: he’s smoother around the edges, his voice goes louder and clearer through the air so everyone can understand his speech, he puts a slightly excessive emphasis on words as to draw focus on the most important parts.

Stats are short for “statistics”. They’re an essential part of competitive battling. Every species has what are called “base stats” that determine if they’re generally better at occupying a position in a team. For example, bulkier species are used to set up an entire team while faster species will more often be used as quick-hitting sweepers. We’ll talk more in-depth about teambuilding later: for now, we’ll talk about the stats in general.

_(Breathe in, breathe out. You’re great.)_

There are five main stats: Attack, Defence, Special Attack, Special Defence and Speed. Once upon a time, when stats weren’t very well understood, it was assumed that Special Attack and Special Defence were the same, grouped together as a single stat named “Special”. On top of these five can be added two other stats, Accuracy and Evasiveness, which are situational and so aren’t measurable outside of battle.

_(Breathe in, breathe out. You’re good)._

Of course, stats aren’t the only determining factor in a battle. Moves used, type effectiveness and items, if they’re allowed, are all factors a battling Trainer needs to take in account. It should be noted that moves and abilities can also cause stats to increase or decrease depending on whether or not they activate. Let’s look over a couple examples. 

_(Breathe in, breathe out. You’re fine)._

Growl causes a decrease in the opposing Pokémon’s Attack by one stage. However, Retreat rises its user’s defence by one stage. Some moves do this in two stages instead of one: Swords Dance rises its user’s Attack by two stages while Screech lowers the opponent’s Defence by two stages. Some moves also rise more than one stat at a time: Work Up rises both of its user’s Attack and Special Attack stats. Am I clear? (Response is positive). Good, let’s move onto our next point.

_(Breathe in, breathe out. You’re **fine** )._

Except he’s _not_ fine, but that’s beside the point… or, at least, he wishes it’d be. He needs to push through the pain to start rambling about Natures and IVs, but nothing’s good enough: his mind is afraid IVs may be too confusing to his audience who’s just started catching wild Pokémon in the tall grass on the road next door while his body just won’t cooperate as much as it should in these trying times. Nothing’s going as planned today.

Anyway. Natures are what influences the stats of a given Pokémon. Not two Pokémon of the same species will have the exact same stats in part because Natures will most likely give them different rises and decreases compared to the average base stats of their species.

(Don’t clench your shirt like that, you’re going to wrinkle it. It won’t be very proper coming from a teacher. Plus, do you want to get questions about why you’re doing that from the students? It’ll derail the entire class you’re already struggling to keep coherent.)

We can categorize Natures in two different categories: stat-altering Natures and neutral Natures. The second category is for the five Nature who don’t rise or lower any stat, while the other is for everything else. Indeed, aside from neutral Natures, a Pokémon will see its stats be risen or lowered compared to the average that doesn’t take in account any alteration. It’s a very theoretical model which can’t be found in nature.

(Stop gritting your teeth like that, you’re going to tire your jaw unnecessarily. It won’t seem good for a teacher to look this angry for no reason. Plus, do you want to get questions about why you’re frowning this much from the students? It’ll derail the entire class you’re already struggling to keep straight.)

Now, two Pokémon with the exact same Nature can have… differing stats. They can have been influenced by… multiple factors, including what are called Effort Values and Individual Values, or EV and IV for short. They used to be difficult to know for sure, but tools have… improved that tremendously.

Oh, oh no. This is bad. The pain really isn’t getting better. It’s like he’s getting gutted from the inside. Quickly glancing at his trusty watch, he’s realizing two things: he still has half an hour to go before the inspection ends (and even then, it’s not the end of the day at all, just the end of forcing himself to look better than he’s ever felt) and the little hair visible under his blazer is risen. For someone who could complain about feeling too hot and too smothered in his fancier outfit earlier this morning, he sure feels cold now. And, no, no: the windows aren’t open and so is the door.

One of his knees almost buckles out of the blue, threatening to drag everything down with it, but he keeps it straight. Breathe in, breathe out: it’s just thirty minutes. He’s done great so far, nobody seems to have stopped following the lesson. Keep it on, continue trudging forward; he’ll beg Angela for painkillers later. Resume before the students start chatting amongst themselves like they’re starting to do.

Yet, right as he’s about to resume speaking, something else catches his attention in the corner of his eye and he stays quiet. The inspector is telling his right-hand something that then prompts the latter to exit the room without a word nor excuse, barely even looking at him. Would that be anyone not affiliated to the judge, he’d have at least asked for a reason; but speaking more than necessary sounds like a chore (and a self-destructive one at that) and, frankly, rising against the inspector sounds like shooting himself in the foot.

That’s when he hears a clap of the hand and watches the old man rise from his chair, expression unreadable from how blurry his vision is growing from the pain. If it continues going downhill as fast as it has been doing so until now, he’ll start crying in front of his students. Not a good move at all, and yet, it seems like even medicine won’t do anything for him now. All he can do is stomach it and—

_It’s break time, children._

His knees almost buckle down again. The students silently follow him with perplexed eyes as the inspector carefully walks up to him while he just stares in disbelief. This can’t be any good for him and the air changes into that of a terrible omen about to unleash on him. If he had doubts about feeling chills earlier, he’s now certain his entire body is trembling from them. He wasn’t a good enough comedian, was he?

The man eventually reaches him. He feels his resolve waver with unstable legs dancing in a sloppy tango like they’re as confused as a Spinda; yet he forces himself to stand strong. He may already be doomed: he won’t let his doubts show. It’d be admitting to a weakness.

“W-what do you mean…?” He still tries protesting anyway, fingers wrinkling the right side of his shirt. “The bell hasn’t—”

“We’ve seen enough.” He turns back, his voice suddenly shifting to a cheerful tone. The children don’t seem to buy it. “You should go play together on the playground. We adults need to have a conversation in private.”

Hesitantly, his students look up to him. Well, sometimes, you just need to admit defeat, he supposes…

“…go take a breather, everyone. We’ll resume later.”

He watches his entire class leave the room in silence and bothered faces, as if something was itching all of them at the same time. He sighs, arms wrapped around his waist in hopes it’ll subdue the fire raging inside, in vain.

“Be truthful: are you okay, young man?” The inspector asks, probably glancing at him while he’s busy not giving in.

“I… I’m fine, don’t worry…” Wow, that was a big, fat lie if he’s ever heard one coming from his mouth. Still, if you want to be strong, you first need to _look_ strong… 

“I’ll openly admit I have my doubts as to that statement. You look like you’re about to kneel, am I wrong?”

As if on cue, his legs finally give up, sending him gliding along the wall his back has been leaning against all this time, grip on his own waist strengthening. There’s no point in hiding everything anymore. It’s as good of a time as any to let his eyes water in peace…?

The older man kneels to his level, putting his hands on his shoulders. Not like he can really see what is happening very well with everything going on in the background, but one thing is sure: this is _exactly_ what he didn’t want to see happen today to a T. This is a tragedy from beginning to end, there’s nothing redeemable about this entire fiasco, and, and…

“They said they’d arrive in about ten minutes,” the right-hand’s voice suddenly comes back into the room.

“Who’s… they…?”

“An ambulance,” the old man replies. “Will you be able to hold up for they’re here?”

“I s’pose so…”

Honestly, all of his certainties may have crumbled with the last of his strength that was left. Now, all that’s left for him to do is…

“I… I’m sorry, sir.”

“What are you apologizing for?”

Isn’t it obvious? Well, he supposes he also needs to own up to his actions by his words.

“This class, sir… Ev’rything ’bout it’s gone wrong. I’m so sorry to have made you sit through this…”

“There’s need for you to apologize. You’ve handled everything as much as you could despite the circumstances. Tell me, why didn’t you cancel it? You had all the rights to.”

“I… couldn’t make you cancel at the last minute like that. Plus, I had already told the students, so I couldn’t bail on them this late when they had already done their homework… That’d have been unfair for everyone involved.” He takes a deep breath in and out to stabilize his fainting voice. “And even then, we’ll have to postpone that… I’ll make them miss important lessons… Hah… I hope I won’t be gone for too long…”

“We don’t need to postpone it. I’ve seen more than enough for me to know you’re trustworthy, although you’d better focus a bit more on yourself… Your students need you to be in a peak condition, even if you’ll be unwell from time to time.”

“You don’t think I’m… faking it or anything, right…?”

“You have all the tell-tale symptoms of a severe appendicitis. I’ve gone through it before, I know just how much it hurts. In fact, I’m impressed you’ve managed to hold out so much while going through this. Don’t worry, it’ll get better soon.”

All he does in response is nod and finally let his eyes tear up. His vision blackens as sirens ring in the faraway background, reassuring yet threatening, a reminder of a day he’ll want to forget about as soon as it’s over.

Goodnight, goodnight, even if it’s not even ten in the morning and he shouldn’t be allowed to sleep now.


	2. Candid Lights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lot of his current issues can be attributed to the fact that Cheren is of an unexpected age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha I'm finishing fics and posting them at 1AM instead of sleeping, sleep is for the weak and unquarantined  
> More seriously, this fic is a bit weird to write, but I hope to finish it by the end of next week. My other fandoms have come back for my soul, but playing Masters every day helps me remember I need to hurt Cheren until he comes out better from it.  
> I hope y'all gonna like this weirdly-paced piece about a teenager realizing he may be younger than he'd like people to think.

And so this is where all of his efforts have brought him: a hospital room, white walls and pastel ornament included. There’s a bright blue sky shining on the other side of the clean window, its gentle light pouring into the room. The bed isn’t very comfortable, but it’s not like anything is feeling cosy at the moment: he’s in a place he doesn’t know for a very humiliating reason. There’s absolutely _nothing_ he’s find comfortable about the entire situation.

At least, he doesn’t have the time to wonder enough to find questions to ponder about, as there’s already someone next to his bed. It’s an unfamiliar woman looking at him with gentle green eyes (quite matching of her short hair too) and a slight smile.

“Ah, you’re awake again! How are you feeling, Cheren?”

Do they know each other for her to use his first name so familiarly? Or is he just used to being called “Mr” or “Teach” so much he’s let that get to his head? It’s hard to tell.

“I’d say… numb.” His voice is groggy, _fatigued_ ; and that’s despite class ending much too early. “If I may ask, who are you?”

She doesn’t seem startled by his impoliteness.

“I’m Nurse Leslie. I was making my rounds just as you woke up, so this was very convenient timing, don’t you think?”

Ah, he’s finally pinpointing what’s rubbing him in such a wrong way. That sugary, overly-caramelized tone is sickening. To say he purposefully tries to look older than his age… Talk about missing the point.

“I suppose so…” The question is burning his tongue, but is it a good idea to ask it already? It’s been two minutes at most.

Nurse Leslie doesn’t seem too annoyed by his sudden silence either. It’s like she’s used to speaking to walls.

“Okay! I’m going to explain very quickly the rules of the hospital, if that’s fine with you!”

“Oh, sure, go for it.”

“Breakfast is at half past seven, lunch is at noon and dinner is at six o’clock in the evening. Visit hours are from ten in the morning to seven in the evening. You can press this button”, (she points to an orange square-shaped button right next to his pillow), “to call for a nurse if you need one. But remember, it’s only for important reasons! Don’t press it just because you want company, you can play with the others in the common rooms and go outside if you need to walk! By the way, the common rooms are open from ten to four and you can go outside after eating breakfast and before eight, but remember to be in your room for lunch and dinner. Am I clear?”

“I don’t think I… Actually, I do have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Why are you addressing me as if I was a child?”

“Well, you’re still a minor, aren’t you?”

This sentence sinks inside of him like a rock in a lake. Don’t tell him he’s…

“Wait. Is this the… _children’s_ wing?”

“Indeed! That’s just protocol, though, there’s nothing special about that. Is it important to you?”

“I…” Okay, he’s officially hit rock bottom. How is he supposed to rise up from that point? “I mean… Shouldn’t I be in the regular wing for my condition? It seems… silly, isn’t it, for me to be here, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Cheren. You’re not an adult _yet_ , are you?”

Sure, by _law_ he isn’t, he still has two years before being able to get a driver’s license or buy a house to his name. But, seriously, this is silly. He lives on his own. He’s a _teacher_ , for Arceus’s sake. He’s responsible for children in the workplace. He shouldn’t be categorized in the same part of a hospital, should he? What if he wants to prepare his lessons and some children come knocking to his door? That doesn’t sound much like resting to him.

“I’m not sure if it was the right choice. I mean, I do have important things I need to be able to focus on.”

“Oh, don’t worry for that! We also have homework rooms where everyone has to remain silent. You’ll be able to work there once you get better!”

“Wait, I’m not—” She’s already leaving, he only has the time for once question, better be efficient in his words, “— how long am I going to stay here?”

“Hmm… For around a week, I’d say. I have to get going, see you around!”

And that’s how he watches her leave: dumbfounded.

Still, what Nurse Leslie said immediately takes in effect. He can’t leave the bed tonight, instructions from the surgeon who operated on him; as such, he’s stuck studying his room. His clothes are neatly folded on a little table, with his shirt and blazer sitting on hangers. As he stares at them, he avoids looking down at how he’s currently dressed: a hospital gown that, fortunately, doesn’t seem to be a child’s. They (presumably) don’t make those for people his size.

There’s an IV inserted into his wrist. According to the doctor, it’s a saline solution to compensate for how dehydrated and malnourished he ended up being. To be honest, he can’t quite remember the last time he ate where it didn’t end up either never going anywhere or going in the wrong place. He’ll have to check back home if he didn’t clog the toilet. He can expect the drip to be gone soon, though. Good riddance in advance.

He slips in and out of sleep – blame it on the anaesthetics that haven’t completely faded out just yet – for a couple hours. However, and right as he’s about to drift back to not quite sleep, a knock on his door surprises him awake. The lethargy he was feeling until then suddenly disappears with it. He reacts with a better sounding “yes”.

Like most things in this day, he gets surprised by who exactly is paying him a visit: Inspector Walter himself. His right-hand seems to be missing from the picture, but he won’t rise any question about it: he’s better off imagining things, at the end of the day. He’s been enough of a clown for his entire life in a couple hours, he’s much better off not pouring oil onto the fire, especially since the one raging inside of him got put.

“Good evening, Cheren,” Walter says calmly as he makes his way to the bed. He’s got a smile on his face.

“Good evening to you too, sir,” he replies while his eyes don’t quite dare make eye contact. Not after this morning’s events.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, I’d say. Not exactly in a peak condition, as you can see, but… better. Perhaps a little numb too…” Why is he rambling? This man can’t be here for this and he’s especially not here for his raspy voice). “Please, sir, can I know what brings you here? I’ve been told inspectors had very tight schedules, I wouldn’t want to make you lose your time.”

“Don’t concern yourself over me, I know how to manage my time just fine. Do you mind if we chat for a bit? I’ll promise I’ll be gone by dinner.”

“I don’t mind.”

Walter picks up a chair and puts it right next to the bed, folding his arms on his chest.

“I was surprised to learn your room was in the children’s wing. By chance, Cheren, could it be that you’re still a teenager?”

He doesn’t reply, instead tempted to fiddle with his IV in lieu of his tie. It sounds like a terrible idea.

“How old are you?”

“…I’m sixteen, sir.”

Surprise flashes on Walter’s face.

“My, my, you’re even younger than I thought… You’ve indeed done quite the spectacular job, for someone your age thrusted into such a delicate situation. Still, don’t rush things forward. You still have a lot of time before you. You may be able to quickly recover now, but it means you should start getting healthy work habits now.”

“Understood.”

Walter smiles again, pinching his moustache with the tips of his fingers.

“Good. I need to get going, but I wanted to pay you a visit before I left the city. You’ll see, getting over an appendicitis isn’t the worst thing in this world. It’s what you got, right?”

“It is.”

“It’s a good thing it got operated on in time. Take care of yourself, okay? You’re a great teacher, if not a little too devoted to the job. Keep what I told you about being in a peak condition for your students in mind. You’ll do fantastically. There is, however, one last thing I need you to understand.”

“Which is?”

Walter’s tone goes from a happy chip to a colder hush.

“Don’t forget how old you are. Or, should I say, how _young_ you are.”

He doesn’t reply with anything but silence.

“I’ve taken more than enough of your time. I wish you a good night.”

“Good… Goodnight, sir.”

Before he knows it, the room goes back to loneliness and a long, uneventful evening follows suit.

_Youth_ seems to be a leitmotiv here. He’s never lied about his age, but to say he likes avoiding the question as much as possible would be quite the understatement. If he doesn’t get asked about it, he’ll never even mention the fact he’s very much still a minor in the eyes, and that he’s technically still under the supervision of…

His _parents_. How can he have forgotten about them? They’ll surely at least try calling him. How is he going to explain the situation to them? They won’t be any happy to learn that he’s managed to completely flunk the one thing he wasn’t supposed to fail. They may even stop trusting him by virtue of assuming he’s not capable of handling this by himself. He is, that’s the point, and he doesn’t feel like he has the energy to deal with that.

Or maybe they’ll never know, which would be a best-case scenario. As far as he’s aware, he’s categorized as an anticipated minor, he doesn’t need a legal figure to chaperone over his health anymore. He’ll be fine on his own and that’s all his parents need to know about this. He doesn’t expect them to bother going through the entirety of Unova just to get to Aspertia anyway…

Dinner comes around. He almost walks to the table they’re supposed to put over his bed, but the nurse reminds him of doctor’s orders before he can think about them. The food isn’t exactly a gourmet meal, far from it; still, it’d be nothing more than complaining about free meals, which is in itself more than rude to do. He should be grateful instead, plus, being negative about it will only make it taste and feel worse.

Nuggets, peas and mashed potatoes with apple purée, huh. This looks exactly like a kiddie’s meal in a restaurant. At least, the taste is fine enough, if not very faint at times. It’s edible, that’s all he’s asking for at this point. Not to mention, his intestines may not be too friendly with him today, appendicitis-induced collapse and all… He isn’t in the mood for a feast is what he’s trying to put into words.

Once dinner is done and over with, the table back to being next to the wall and the leftovers discarded, the last visit of the day has been dealt with. It’s only him, a wall-mounted TV whose remote he doesn’t know the localization of, a window giving onto the patio and his thoughts. It’s painfully, eerily serene in here: far are the cries of children finishing classes and the sweat splashing drop by drop onto the grounds where the last battles of the day happen.

Come to think of it, by this time, he’s usually still at the school, correcting papers and cleaning after his classes. He says goodbye to the workmates who leave earlier and makes sure nothing has been forgotten behind. The atmosphere of a day’s closure is one of the most comfortable feelings he can have in Aspertia: it’s both soothing and reminding him of what life is. It’s neither too silent nor too noisy, brushing against his ears like a gentle breeze.

Too bad this is a hospital where none of this peaceful, yet lively life takes course, huh.

And so, his evening and night aren’t unlike the rest of his day: trying to find sleep to pass the time. It’s difficult on levels of petty inconvenience: his stitches make finding a position to fall asleep in frustrating, he’s already lied around all afternoon and his thoughts may be getting in the way of closing his eyes for good.

The night in a hospital is, as expectable, never really calm. There’s the sound of his last packet dripping every few moments, in a monotone rhythm his mind is trying, vague steps in the corridors, the harsh wind pushing itself against the window. There’s no real serenity to be found here, this much was obviously clear, he’ll need to get over it sooner or later. At least, that means the place is still alive, even in the dead of the night. That’s the most reassuring about this, if he’s to be honest. It’s a minor consolation, as far as he’s concerned – but one nonetheless.

This sudden halt in his life’s course makes issues he’s purposely pushed back to the bottom of his mind go back to the surface, floating like bubbles. They’re all pretty mundane things, thoughts that aren’t too important most of the time. He doesn’t have enough hours in the day to think about them, so it’s fine if he pushes them aside. Maybe he’ll take care of them later, when his mind will be clearer, when he’ll have slept enough for the anaesthetic to have entirely disappeared from his systems and when the dull pain in his abdomen will have subdued.

Or maybe he’ll never face these questions. These are childish in nature, after all. He needs to look up he can still sign up to the WPC and see if there’s any open spot in his schedule. He should call Bianca again one of these days, it’s been a while. Well, once he’s solved the issue that his sudden absence will rise up. Ah, he also needs to find a way to catch up on the time that’ll waste. Perhaps he can send his notes to his workmates? Where’s his laptop? Should he ask Vincent or Monica? Who’d be the fittest, but also have some time? Should he send homework to be given back through him by email?

Many questions, even more time to answer every single one of them…

He hasn’t had an actual full night of sleep for a while. His inspection stressed him out for at least a couple weeks, filling his light-night mind with dozens of what-ifs he couldn’t find many positive responses to. Blame it on the night inspiring him darker thoughts than his daily life as a teacher with a more-than-manageable class: he’s still getting used to navigating life as a teenager.

Wait, when did he stop considering as what he is, an adult? God, he needs sleep, his thoughts are starting to make no sense… He should get some before the night comes to an end and he gets woken up by all of the noise that is sure to come with the presence of children in the close premise. Goodnight, as much as that’s possible…

When the sun eventually rises up, warm colours filling the monochrome room, Cheren doesn’t quite remember when he dozed off once and for all. He doesn’t get the time to try and find the answer, as a knock is soon to get him back to reality: breakfast, then an assisted shower. He should be grateful that he’s getting a slimmer of privacy in these trying times, despite how uneasy he is to share a bathroom with a nurse.

It’s not even that Nurse Leslie is a bad person, or that she naturally causes him a malaise. It’s just that he appreciates having his personal space in which he can breathe without worry. He does understand her presence enough to find himself not minding as much as he dreaded to: she flawlessly, effortlessly navigates around his still fresh stitches, and all of this while wearing a smile on her face and humming with cheerfulness and a catchy melody.

Perhaps it’s because he’s grateful for her services that he follows her piece of advice and goes outside his room, even if it’s just to stay indoors now that his IV is done and over with. Better get used to being there: it looks like he’ll be here for a good week.

At least, the corridors don’t look too childish. Sure, they have colourful tiles on the bottom of the walls and there’s a patterned ribbon coursing through the top part of them, but aside from that, it looks like a regular hospital where he doesn’t feel too out of place if he ignores he’s been put with people younger than his students.

As he walks through them, discovering his surroundings, he spots the different rooms Leslie told him about. They look fairly cosy, for a hospital’s answer to a real issue for pupils stuck for a longer time in such a place.

He’s slow because his stitches still bother him and the pain hasn’t entirely faded away, so most of the children he sees easily walk past him, some even running with an apologetic nurse telling them to slow down, quickly giving him their apologies for bothering him. He never quite knows what to tell them, aside from a quick “it’s all fine”.

Instead of working on his classes and using his precious time to improve the situation, Cheren sits on a chair in a common room and watches the children around him play. Most of them don’t seem to notice he’s here, most of the others just turn an eye away. Good thing: he’s never proved himself to be a great entertainer.

There’s something he must have lost that has infused in the air around them. They don’t seem to care about time, never glancing at the clock ticking right over their head, discarding the fact they’ll all have to eventually go back to their respective rooms for lunch sooner or later. They don’t seem worried about school, about their home, about how the rest of the world is doing: they’re all in their little bubbles, which fuse and split apart throughout the day. It’s mesmerizing in a way he can’t quite describe with words. It could be that he’s never been a poet.

Still, is there anything in common between these carefree, innocent children and him? Why is he here? Was it absolutely mandatory for them to put him in a bed surrounded by people less than half his age for the most part? Sure, the popular idea about appendicitis is that it usually happens to younger people – but is he the only person to have had their appendix combust this way who is over twelve?

The more he stares at Kevin and Dylan pulling a prank on Mark, the more he watches Stella and Mike build a Pokémon Daycare for themselves with figurines and building bricks, the more he makes a mental map of the fictional world Kari and Nina are inventing on the spot, the less he understands how he’s supposed to relate to them. What he’s doing is closer to a social study than an attempt at blending into the group. His presence here is dumbfounding.

A high-pitched voice suddenly comes to his ears.

“Mr Cheren?”

He immediately recognizes whose voice this is. He’s somehow forgotten until now that she’d be missing for more than his inspection. At least, the familiar face makes him smile.

“Ah, good morning, Lily. I hope you’ve been doing well.”

She seems bothered by something.

“Is there something wrong?”

“…can I… sit next to you…?”

“Oh, of course.”

She takes the seat next to his. Her eyes won’t leave him, but she never looks into his own. Ah, he must look very different than he does at school… Not being able to groom yourself in the morning and lacking an incentive to do so something does that.

“Is there something you need from me?” He asks, studying her gaze hesitate more and more.

“Why… Why are you here, teach…?”

The candid stutter in her voice makes his heart melt a little.

“Ah, I… You could say I unexpectedly got sick too. I even think I got the same thing that you did.”

“Even adults can get it?”

Well, that’s a good question, and for all the wrong reasons too.

“Yes, even adults can get it. In fact, it’s even worse for them, because children recover more easily.”

“But, Mr Cheren, does that mean it’s worse for you?”

The concern exuding from her words shuts him down. He needs to choose a path: either he admits to her he’s young enough to have landed here, or he lets her worry herself uselessly over him when she’s convalescent too. There’s no changing topics with children her age.

“I’m… I’m younger than I look. I’ll be good. My doctor told me I’d recover just fine.”

“Wait, teach, how old are you then? I thought you were, like, around the age of my parents! Well, huh, maybe not parents, they kinda old… More like my cousins, yeah!”

You know, seen like that, seeing the children share secrets amongst each other through hushed whispers and the inevitable distorted telephone game about to unleash… Maybe he can allow himself a little mishap.

“Do you promise to keep it a secret from the school, then?”

“Of course!”

“I just turned sixteen.”

“No way! I don’t believe it!” Lily’s face is incredulous and so is her voice. “You’re my sister’s age!”

He chuckles. If he feels shame for admitting this in public like an idiot, his student’s reaction is worth at least a chunk of that.

“I promise to keep it a secret from everyone, even from my sis!”

“Good.”

The more he stares at Kevin and Dylan pulling a prank on Mark, the more he watches Stella and Mike build a Pokémon Daycare for themselves with figurines and building bricks, the more he makes a mental map of the fictional world Kari and Nina are inventing on the spot, and the more he exchanges casual chit-chat with Lily, the more Cheren understands what was wrong.

Maybe he’s not lost all of his innocence yet.


	3. Conflicting Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With all of this time suddenly on his hands, Cheren remembers the questions he's forgotten to ask to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that update came fast, has it? It contains the one plot point I really wanted to include in this story, so I got quite excited to write it.  
> Originally, this chapter wasn't meant to exist, but I needed to take more time and develop my ideas. I hope it'll be good enough.

If his room was calm on his first days, it’s nothing of that for the following days. In fact, between all of the visits he’s getting, he has no personal time, keeping his mind away from immediately running to his students and preventing his fingers from dancing around the keyboard, composing lessons and replying to emails.

It’s a good thing according to Leslie that he’s getting so much love and attention. However, Cheren doesn’t fully agree with that idea: he’s about to implode from how much of it is suddenly getting poured onto his head. The pretence Vincent gave him so he’d willingly stay put was that he’d finally get some rest, as he was getting fatigued from the fast pace of the school and Gym duties. That’s not called getting rest, though: that’s called _spending time with other people_. There’s an _important_ distinction to be made here.

Lily is the first to pay him a visit, on the morning following their encounter in the common room. She looks a bit intimidated to be here, sitting next to him. She fumbles with her hands, never quite looking into his eyes, seemingly too busy admiring the very poor and bland decorum of the room – she’s intimidated, nothing more. And, in her situation, who wouldn’t be? He’s her teacher in any other circumstances.

Still, he rises a point to himself by just getting that thought. He’s not a teacher here, he’s just a patient with a tag plate to his name on a door. He’s a recovering individual who has a room to do his post-surgery convalescence in. He has no particular authority here. He’s been stripped down to basics he usually doesn’t have to take in account anymore: as long as he’s here, he’s no Gym Leader and he’s no part of a teaching staff.

He’s just a sixteen-year-old (what would be the word? _Boy_? That sounds _wrong_ ) who had to get his appendix removed after he got brought in, if he’s to listen to everyone else.

His second visitor is Vincent. He’s brought flowers and apologies with him, asking to be excused for not having come sooner. Cheren’s answer to that is honest: it gave him enough time to get himself back into a presentable shape, which he hasn’t minded in the slightest. He’d have felt bad if he had faced his colleague with month-deep rings under his eyes and hair rebelling against his will.

He manages to exchange questions about work with Vincent, whose answers remain vague. Still, he does get the one answer he absolutely needed: his students are temporarily being taken care of by a part of his workmates, including Vincent himself. He’s managed to give his colleague an USB drive containing his notes and the few papers he did finish preparing either before landing in the hospital or during the early days of his stay. Mission accomplished.

He gets tired of lectures. Vincent poured all of his “fatherly knowledge” on him, talked down on him as if he was his son. They’re not equals, when Vincent is sitting on a chair and he’s bedridden by an affliction that isn’t even directly a result of anything he could’ve done. One of his organs set itself on fire and that’s all there is to it, nothing else. It’s happened to adults too. Stop it. Stop starting at him as if he was a mere _child_ , for Reshiram and Zekrom’s sakes!

He should calm down. He must be seeing things where there’s nothing. It’s not usual for biological father figures to look out for people younger than them in hopes to give the next-ish generation the knowledge life has taught them. Vincent has been this way around some of their other workmates too, including Angela. That must be frustrating to her too, knowing her personality. At least, and if that’s any consolation, he’s not the only one going through this. Vincent must just have his best interest in mind whenever he gets doused with advice for the third time in the day. Today is no exception, only it’s more noticeable now that he has very little to keep his mind off of it.

His third visit comes in the form of Bianca on the fourth day. She fumbles in apologies too, explaining a hundred words a minute why she didn’t have the time or means to go to Aspertia or its surroundings until now, and he forgives her as soon as she mentions having been busy in the lab. She comes in the name of Prof. Juniper, of both his and her parents and, of course, in her own. She admits to him she got concerned when she first learnt from the professor that he had been hospitalized but is now relieved to see he’s still his good old self. Her smile is as warm as ever.

Some things have never changed, even in two years. His life may seem like it’s been torn apart and put back together with better clue and sturdier threads: it nonetheless remains _his_ life and he can’t have changed, can’t have _grown_ that much since the end of his Unova journey. Maybe he is really just a teenager confused with how much has changed about him and what is a mere fabrication from someone who’d want people to forget what his age is supposed to be in _their_ minds.

It’s probably the spirit of the hospital’s wing getting to his head. No matter how many times he asked Leslie about it, she’s always replied in the same manner: why does he mind so much? It’s just a short stay in the correct section of the hospital and he’s not even obligated to go into the common rooms if he desires not to be around “children who are younger than him” (he doesn’t like the impression he’s getting from her phrasing). There’s nothing for him to be this adamantly disagreeing with. It’s all in his head.

But he’s _already_ sixteen and that’s what she refuses to understand. He lives on his own, has a job and responsibilities, and he doesn’t see why he should be split from other people with houses, jobs and responsibilities. He cooks all of his meals, fills his bills and declares his income like the nurse assigned to his corridor, the surgeon who operated on him and the _parents_ of the people he keeps seeing instead. In all regards, he’s an adult; so they should let him be an adult and stop babying him.

To his argumentative, articulated speech, all Leslie replies is a shrug and a _mocking hum_ , as if he was just a child playing pretend. Way to disregard him just because she’s a couple years older than he is and owns a driver’s license.

A fourth visitor he gets, right before the visits end for his fourth day here, is Angela. Her ponytail swings with every single one of her over-the-top movements, from the moment she enters the room to the moment she leaves it. He expects her to have come her to yell at him how dumb he was to make class despite his condition worsening with each passing minute: it’s none of that. Instead, she’s come here to genuinely ask for news about his health. She even makes a light-hearted remark about how she isn’t used to see him wear glasses like he has to do now that he can’t access his contacts without risking to be chastised by the medical staff.

She does scold him, by the end of visiting hours. Tells him he got careless on this one, that he should’ve cancelled or at least let her examine him. Reminds him to go through her first, explains she’s had to sign his discharge papers because he was still underage. Listening to Angela is like being put in the same shoes and shorts as his students. The difference between them and him to her eyes must be slimmer than he’s thought it was.

A fourth night goes by with thoughts invading his head over and over again. They’re a mixed bag of fairly negative emotions, at best bittersweet, at worst salty and distasteful. They overpower everything else, too strong to become background noise in the black of night, too intense to ignore. They cut too deep, as much as he’s afraid to admit.

There are nonetheless positive news to look forward to. He got told this was his last day here, as his recovery is steady enough to more or less guarantee he’ll be out by the weekend: because this has been such a botched week, the very idea that he’ll be able to see at least the rest of Aspertia outside of this building is worth rejoicing to. Sometimes, you need to settle for the lower fruits. That, he’ll give to Leslie: she was right there.

The most impactful conversation he has in this hospital doesn’t happen in his room. In fact, it happens outside. The weather stopped being so clement after his first day, so his fifth day sees him discover the patio and wish never to see it against, as a patient or as a visitor alike. It’s a pretty place, there is no doubt about it: it’s covered in vibrant vegetation, joyful flowers and well-groomed trees and bushes. The scent of spring fills the atmosphere and floats in the air, gently. Birds’ chippering can be heard nearby.

He expected to see a lot of children when coming here, yet he’s mostly seeing adults walking down the different alleys and profiting from the benches. It’s not that he dislikes walking by any means, but he’s felt easily light-headed these past few days, his stitches can reopen if he isn’t careful enough and his body seems to be screaming for him to sit down every so often. Like a student – he supposes everyone does learn at least a little something every day, no matter what age they are –, he needs to put his lesson into practice: listen to your body, don’t overdo it.

As he give his legs and sense of balance a rest, his mind wanders around again.

After spending close to an entire week in this hospital, closed off from most of the world by walls and people alike, he’s finding himself with even less peace of mind than when he first came here. He’s nurtured interrogations about his students, his body of work, his future as a teacher – he’s even started reconsidering how mature and self-providing he was. He has been earning his own salary, he has been working to his name, has been put on the same level as his legally adult colleagues. Perhaps he should stop insisting on the legal aspect of their main difference, it’s starting to sound very silly…

He stares at the floor, at his feet covered by hospital slippers. He looks ridiculous. Perhaps he should take this as an opportunity to loosen up and laugh a bit about his own misfortune, giggle off his bad luck. It’s not even like he’s getting out of this appendicitis with negative long-lasting consequences: as far as he’s been told, his inspection has been considered a success. Well, to him, it’s still a complete disaster he didn’t see coming when he should have; but it’s not the opinion of his inspector, it seems, and he’s going to have to deal with the consequences of that.

“Are you by yourself, my boy?” A voice asks him, prompting him to rise his head.

As soon as he does, he finds himself facing an older man’s gentle features, wrinkles smiling along with his grin. His eyes look aged, which suits the almost entirely greyed-out red hair still thriving on the top of his head. Like him, it seems like he can’t grow a beard: there isn’t a single hair to be found on his chin.

“Do you mind if I sit next to you?”

“Ah, huh… I don’t really mind, I guess…”

The man sits down, slowly, mindful of his moves and cracking articulations. It doesn’t seem like age has brough his moral down: he’s still smiling, albeit apologizing for how noisy his limbs have grown to be. It’d be a weird (not to mention downright mean-spirited) thing to mind.

“What are you here for?” The man asks again, his arms crossed.

“Appendicitis. It’s my last day here.”

Cheren doesn’t really have an idea as to where to take the conversation. It feels a little rude to ask “what about you?” as if they were just asking each other how their days have been so far. Not that he’d be able to reply to that question in any significantly different way would that have been what the man was asking about.

“I see. I was wondering why such a youngster would be here. Or maybe I’m just an old man who’s a bit too used to this place and to seeing the same persons all day long!”

“You’re often here?” His question makes it sound like they’re just in a café. That may not be the most appropriate tone to adopt there.

“You could say I’m a regular, yeah. Comes with having a chronic condition. I assume it’s also your first time around here, I’ve never seen you!”

The man shakes his head right as he’s about to get utterly confused. Are all patients like here, or has he just stumbled upon the happiest in-patient in all of Unova?

“Oh, I ramble and ramble, but I forgot to introduce myself! You should’ve told me that sooner, I see you all confused over here! My name is Peter. I’m originally from Sinnoh but have lived in Aspertia for around fifteen years. I’m, indeed, a regular here. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And I’m Cheren. I’m a teacher at the Trainers’ School. Pleasure to meet you too.”

“Oh, I recognize you now! Aren’t you our newly-appointed Gym Leader?”

“Ah, y-yes, that too; but it’s only been a couple months… Actually, come to think of it, I’ve only been in Aspertia for less than a year. I’m originally from Nuvema.”

Peter nods along, his smirk never leaving. He seems to know more, much more than he lets on; but, on the better side of the coin, he also looks like he means no harm. They’re in a hospital anyway: is there anything he’s risking by talking to a single man who must be more than forty years older than him? Well, that’s with stitches put aside…

“Nuvema, huh. It’s not the nearest city from Aspertia, am I wrong?”

“You’re indeed right on that. I don’t regret moving out, even if I sometimes feel a little homesick. I imagine that must be even worse for you.”

“Oh, don’t worry for me, I do see my natal Sinnoh more often than you think. Have you ever heard about a city called Oreburgh? That’s where I come from. I usually see it at least once a year, when I need to go back to Sinnoh for appointments. Plus, you’re not a Sinnohan if you don’t bring Sinnoh with you wherever you go.”

“I… I see. I’ve heard about Oreburgh before, but since I’ve never been outside Unova, I’ve only heard of it. Perhaps someday, I’ll go to other regions and discover more of the world… That sounds nice.”

“You should. Going on journey makes wonders for the youth.”

Ah, here is it again.

“I’m a teacher now, so travelling won’t be easy, I’m afraid. I’d need to have a day off or wait until a summer break. Maybe then, if I have enough budget…”

Peter’s chuckles interrupt him in his stream, prompting him to stare at his interlocutor with ludicrous eyes.

“Is there anything weird with what I said?”

“No, not at all! You just remind me of my grandnephew.”

“…I do?”

He’s not sure how to respond. It’s a very random thing to compare someone you’ve just met to.

“Indeed! He’s serious and careful like you are! He’s even a Gym Leader too! I’d say you’re even around the same age.”

“If it’s not too curious from me, how old is he?”

“He’s almost nineteen. I wonder if you’ll ever meet him, since you’re both Leaders. I think you’d both get along pretty well. How old are you, exactly?”

“…sixteen.”

Peter’s face distorts for a moment, before shaping back into a sadder smile.

“You’re… You’re younger than I expected.”

“That’s what most people tell me. I suppose I do look older than that.”

“It’s less about your appearance than your character, you know? You’re really like my grandnephew. He’s maybe too responsible for his age.”

Something inside him wants to explode, to finally let loose; but Cheren figures he’ll scream at the mirror in his bathroom. There’s no valid reason to yell at an old man he’s just met.

“He’s had troubles adjusting to this lifestyle, especially with the illness that plagues our family; but he’s doing a great job. I assume it’s the same for you. It’s not like you collapsed or anything to land here anyway, so you must have chosen this. Just be careful, okay?”

An illness? Now that’s intriguing. Still, it sounds even ruder to ask a stranger about such a personal thing, even if he did just mention it… It’s a hospital, right? Maybe he can…

“Wait, an illness?” He asks nonetheless. “Well, at least, if you don’t mind me asking…”

“Ah, yeah. Both he and I are affected by a rare disease named Rosalia’s Syndrome. It only activated very late in my life, but my grandnephew’s been affected by it starting from his teenage years. It’s a terrible thing to learn about, but you eventually learn to live with it.”

Peter lies back into the bench, back sitting against the back panel.

“What I’m trying to say is that, even if you feel like you don’t have any time, make sure not to rush too fast.”

The silence that settles between them feels comfortable. It’s neither forced nor obliged upon them, instead letting their souls wander and come back. The sky is beautiful and the weather shows no signs of rotting anytime soon, he has no reason to leave now and go back to his monotone routine.

“Tell me, Cheren. For how long have you been here?”

“It’s been five days. It’s my last day here too.”

“And has your family visited you?”

“They haven’t. Nuvema is too far from Aspertia for them to do so in the middle of the week. It’s not like I’ve told them either; but a childhood friend of mine paid me a visit in their name, so it’s not like they forgot about me.”

“And you don’t miss them? Didn’t you want to have them by your side?”

“…I live on my own. I’m fine. I wouldn’t have wanted to bother them. I only felt lonely because I’m used to working around a lot of people.”

“It’s normal to miss your family, no matter the age. I had lost contact with mine after the tragic passing of someone I deeply cared about, and only reconnected with them by chance because I met her son in a hospital in Sinnoh… If you don’t want to regret, make sure you still have healthy ties to them. Sever them if you feel like they’re smothering you.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you remind me of him. I know it’s stupid but, in my mind, if I talk to you, I talk to him. I feel like you could benefit from this reminder too.”

Something immediately becomes much clearer in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's main objective was legit to introduce a link between the Sinnoh and Unova parts of Glass Cannon's Blues. I really couldn't wait to write the convo at the end, for how weird it was.  
> Sorry for the abrupt ending, btw. I *swear* it's on purpose.


	4. Owed Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not quite like business as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, finally a chapter of COT where I don't bring up Cheren's age. I think.  
> It's also the last, so I hope I've answered all the questions I wanted to answer to now (which is probably none).

Well, here it is: the day he’s been both looking forward to and dreadful about. Not that it starts in any weird way, aside from the fatigue he hasn’t entirely brushed out just yet: he just knows where it’s heading or, rather, he knows he has very little idea as to how well or horrible things are going to be for everyone involved.

It’s part of his character, he supposes, to overthink everything. He has very little certainties, these days, and he’s still adapting to what turn his life decided to take after failing to become Unova’s Champion, a goal which would have given him nothing positive for reaching, on second thought. That was nothing but a stupid thing to drill into his skull and live by for so long.

Even in the mirror he can see it, see the fresh scar reddening against the rest of his skin. It looks out of place, grotesque even, and it’s a physical reminder of a shame that will never go away. It’s red and swollen, a bit risen, showing the threads of the sutures crossing each other. Sure, it’ll fade with time, he’s been told that by Leslie when she realized it was making him insecure, but it’ll still be there, and it’ll take at least months for it to truly begin to match with the rest. Until now, he’s going to have to be careful to it…

Showering with the recent stitches has been a chore, so it’s not like he’ll forget about it any time soon. He needs to renew his bandage for one more week as to make sure it won’t get infected by anything, not even the fabric of the shirt he’s currently buttoning close.

Forget the blazer, today is meant to be a normal workday. His usual tie and the brooch Bianca gave him as a “promotion present” all these months ago, which he pinches onto the tie, will be more than enough: anything other than that will look and immediately spotted as weird by his students. He’s supposed to bring back a sense of normalcy to the classroom after the unexpectable storm, after all.

At least, today, he knows for certain his sweat is cold and his light stomach-ache is merely due to stress.

The road to the school has nothing noteworthy about it, aside from wishing a good morning to some passers-by. Aspertia is a peaceful city, so there’s very little reason as to why he’d have something bizarre come his way during a routine trip. That peace of mind and streets can’t have changed while he was away. He may have spent a week or so in nothing short of a white cage, he also knows he’d have heard about it if criminality had skyrocketed during that time.

The point is that there’s nothing to worry about now. He has plenty of other reasons to be concerned and a lot of things unrelated to Aspertia’s streets waiting for him, so he quickens his pace, holding his binder next to his chest as he does so to ignore the heartbeats making him nauseous. No time to lose, no point in worrying, he needs to get it together before he can face anyone…

As usual, the school is calm, this early in the morning. He couldn’t sleep very well last night due to today’s stakes, thus why he’s here even earlier than usual. It gives him the time to prepare the classroom, write on the board what needs to be featured there, to breathe in and out. It’s only been a week since the last time, yet it feels like he hasn’t taught anyone in a while: time passed by very slowly, in the hospital, so his perception must have gotten skewed because of that.

The corridors are desert when he finally decides to make his way to the teachers’ lounge to check on his locker. It’s almost eerie, in a way, as if he isn’t used to the overwhelming serenity of his footsteps echoing in the calm hallways. At least, the noise coming from his destination brings him a sense of security back. He’ll fetch himself a cup of coffee and get going with his day, as usual.

“Good morning Cheren” a workmate’s voice comes from his side, prompting him to turn in his head in that direction.

“Ah, good morning to you too, Vincent.”

His colleague is smiling, while he opens his locker to see a thick layer of paper inside of it, prompting him to sigh. He’s going to have quite the correction time, tonight…

“You’re back at work early. Didn’t you only get discharged on yesterday?”

“Ah, no, I was discharged on Saturday. I don’t want to waste any more time than I’ve had already. Not to mention I still have a certificate to give to Angela because I can’t do physical effort just yet…”

As he starts rambling on, he retrieves the papers (not without bending getting difficult yet again), quickly browses through them, and even more rapidly realizes there’s something weird about the pile.

“Wait, why is the homework I gave out during my stay already corrected?” He looks back at Vincent, who is still smiling.

“Monica and I figured you’d just want to insert grades, so we corrected it ourselves.”

“You should’ve told me; I’d have given you my grid…”

“You know, Cheren, being corrected by different people is a very beneficial experience for students. If it reassures you, your students didn’t mind the change. In fact, it’s one of them who asked for it.”

That makes _very_ little sense: such young students wouldn’t realize that. Plus, even if they didn’t mind the different rating system, none of them would have the idea to ask someone else. His workmates must have done it behind his back. He should be grateful for it, he supposes, and it’s quite the well-intentioned attention to give, yet he still feels a little upset – almost betrayed – over it.

“Oh, that makes me think,” he suddenly switches topics. “How were my students while I was away? I hope they didn’t cause too much trouble.”

“No, not at all, aside from being very curious about you. Monica was surprised to see a class get so worried for their teacher, in fact.”

“I’m relieved it wasn’t too troublesome for everyone else. By the way, did any challenger come to the Gym in the meantime?”

“None have,” Vincent replies with a casual tone before his voice switches to another altogether. “Your priorities really haven’t changed, Cheren.”

“Why would they have? It’s only been a week, right? Please tell me my sense of time didn’t get turned upside-down by pain medicine.”

“It has indeed only been a week, as you point it out. You look better than you did the last time I saw you, but you still seem tired. Are you really sure you should be here just yet?”

“I’ve already lost an entire week; I can’t afford losing more time than that. Plus, the Gym had to be put on halt, right? We may have been lucky by not getting a challenger while I was away, but I can’t let that happen again.”

Vincent sighs.

“…You’re really stubborn when you want to, you know? I can tell you got your eight Unova badges with that attitude.”

This nagging tone rings a very familiar bell.

“That’s what the nurse assigned to me said too. Now, I’ll have to go, I need to prepare the room for the morning classes and look over this pile of papers.”

“Can I ask something very quickly on behalf of everyone?”

“Hmm?”

“Don’t push yourself, Cheren. You’re still recovering. You may be young, but you’re still human.”

He stares at his older colleague for a moment, mind blanking out for a second. He’s not sure about why his colleague is telling him such things now, but he nods and gets on with his day. He may be overthinking it.

His first stop, to his dismay, isn’t the classroom: it’s Angela’s office down the corridor. The protocol is what leads him there: if he doesn’t deposit his medical certificate, he’ll commit a professional error. While he trusts himself with lectures, he’s afraid too much physical exertion could tear his stitches apart and Arceus knows how much he doesn’t want to go back to the hospital so soon, especially if it’s to get stuck amongst children half his age, if not younger, yet again.

As soon as he gives her the paper, Angela stares at him with a deadpan. She doesn’t ask how he’s doing, rather, she guesses it from his face and lack of allure. The scolds she gives him are as familiar as they come, so he barely registers them anymore, instead more concerned with the way she’s speaking about giving him an extended leave rather than have him waltz in the corridors. She doesn’t look convinced by his arguments for the leave not happen, but nonetheless lets him leave, saying he’ll regret it and that she’ll be there waiting with the proper documentation already filled-in.

Obviously, finally leaving the infirmary is a blessing.

When he makes it to the classroom, the first thing Cheren does is to lock the door behind him for the moment being. It’s early enough for the students not to wait in front of it, so he doesn’t feel too bad about doing so. It’ll help him focus on the class instead of the numerous questions that keep filling his mind.

He may have had an entire organ taken out through surgery recently, it still doesn’t prevent his right side from hurting when he lifts his arm too high in the air to write something on the board. He should have known the stiches would still be sore even, but he still managed to find a lesson where he’d have to illustrate with chalked-up words on a black background. Perhaps coming back to work this early on was an even worse idea than he thought.

Eventually, the pain is a bit too much for writing to be worth it, so he just goes to open the door (he’ll write once the soreness has subdued), only to be faced with most of the class. Checking his watch reveals to him it’s indeed later than usual, as there’s only ten minutes before class rather than fifteen, but this is still odd: usually, his students arrive later than that. They’d rather profit from the playgrounds and fresh air than stay in their classroom, and yet…

He invites them to come in, which they all do, sitting at their respective tables in a strange lack of chatter and murmurs. Maybe today really won’t be as business as usual as he hoped it’d be. Well, that was to be expected, after all: he can’t pretend like things weren’t very different for a little while even if, in the grand scheme of things, a week isn’t that big of a gap.

In consequence of everything else, the ring bells with everyone already in their seats, copybooks open and pens on the tables. This prompts him, in turn, to snap out of a rare spell of a morning daze, get up from his chair and go close the door so class can start in peace. He still has an odd feeling when he contemplates how the day has been so far: smooth, weird, weirdly smooth, smoothly weird. It also still makes no real sense.

And so life resumes and class starts. He’s standing in front of his audience again, except, this time, he can’t expect to trick them through any sort of physical illusion. He’s nervous, because he doesn’t know how they took last Monday, can’t be sure if they hate him or not for what he tried to pull, if he did the right thing –

“Sir, is something wrong?” Lily asks from her seat on the front row.

He shakes the invading questions off his head, then faces back the class. They shouldn’t be this threatening to him, he has the situation under control, and there is no reason they would rise against him now, is there? Too many questions again…

“N-no, everything’s fine.”

He clears his throat, adjusts his tie, and puts back on his teacher attitude.

“Good morning everyone. First of all, I hope that the events of last week didn’t disturb you too much and that you all had a good weekend. Secondly, the plan of today is to resume on where I left off last Monday, which was the lesson on statistics, and then you’ll have a practice session in the afternoon. Thirdly, well… I think I owe you all an explanation on what happened last week.”

In a sort of reflex, he puts a hand on the bottom of his right flank, over the bandages he wrapped around it no earlier than this morning. It’s suddenly very difficult to look into his students’ eyes.

“As you must have realized, this wasn’t planned. I was supposed to be inspected for our first period, then resume class as usual. However, as you all saw, I… had technical issues, let’s put it that way. Without going into too much detail, I had to take an illness leave. I wish it hadn’t come to that, but my body didn’t quite agree with that. I’m deeply sorry for the display I gave you back there. If you have any questions, ask them.”

Lily lifts her hand the first, so he calls for her. She knows what the others don’t, and he assumes her best friend has told her about Monday already.

“Mr Cheren, why are you apologizing?”

The question doesn’t sit quite well with him. He wants to reply with a simple “why not?”, because he’s a bit confused. He supposes that, however, as a teacher and responsible adult, he needs to make it clear.

“What happened was very unprofessional on my part. I failed to take care of my responsibilities. If something had happened while I was down, it could have endangered the entire group. Not to mention I left the Gym vacant without a substitute, or the state of my inspection, but these don’t concern you as much… All in all, you shouldn’t have seen that. I miscalculated greatly and, instead of giving you proper education, I simply may have scared some of you.”

Sophie, Lily’s best friend, rises her hand second. He calls for her. Everyone is still eerily quiet…

“But, Mr Cheren, why would you apologize for that, then? You looked like you were in a lot of pain!”

“An ailment of any kind isn’t a good enough reason to let you see such a displeasing display.” At least, he’s certain he didn’t throw up in front of the class, that’d have mortified him on the spot. “I’d have had to cancel the class without warning if I didn’t push through it, which would’ve also bothered the inspector, so—”

“But that wasn’t _your_ fault, no?”

He stops for a moment. A student just asked him that like she shot a bullet. He doesn’t know how to answer properly, so he may as well be honest…

“It depends what we’re talking about, Alyssa. What I was sick with wasn’t my fault, technically speaking, but the way I dealt with it and the consequences were. I suppose you may not think like it is…”

“Well, teach, depends on what you had!” Someone else – Rudy, to put a name onto the voice – asks.

“Oh, right!” Alyssa comes back around. “What did you get, sir?”

Well, he should’ve known they’d be curious, who wouldn’t be? The issue is that he needs to reply, and he really, really doesn’t want to admit to such a ridiculous thing. His pride – or, rather his attempts at keeping what is left of it – must be speaking up. And yet, he sighs, closes his eyes, and lets the truth slide from his mouth before he can overthink it yet again.

“I… got hospitalized for appendicitis. It’s nothing grievous.”

He feels like digging a hole to disappear in now that he’s admitted to such a thing; yet, when he opens up his eyes, he sees nothing but sympathetic gazes. He needs to fill it if he doesn’t want his face to combust.

“Speaking of which, because I still… can’t move around much, Mr Vincent and Mrs Monica will oversee your practice sessions. For the next week or two, you’ll have to learn from them. I trust you to be calm and respectful with them.”

The silence doesn’t let up.

“And, to further complicate incoming classes, I can’t write very high because of my sutures, so you’ll have to write fast as we’ll have limited space on the board. Again, you have my apologies for the trouble. I should’ve have handed that better.”

“…Mr Cheren, why are you crying?”

As soon as he hears Lily’s timid voice rise up again, he puts a finger to his eye, only to realize water has pooled in the both of them. He removes his contacts before they can mess around and brushes the water dry, then puts them back on.

“Sorry, I just got a… little emotional, I suppose. I’m still a little tired.”

“You’re sure you should be back already, Teach?”

“I know it’ll be very bold of me to ask, but don’t worry, I’ll manage. If I start feeling faint, I’m pretty sure Angela would track me down anyway.”

“Welcome back, then!”

The smiles on his students’ faces bring one to his as he realizes one more thing: his class seems to care for him. He should probably be minding that, be an actual teacher and not some child who needs his daily dose of attention; and yet there’s the part of him who got so lonely in his hospital room who overpowers his logical sense, so instead, he lets himself be flattered. He’ll be more professional tomorrow.

“Thank you very much for your nice words, everyone,” Cheren finally says before picking back his cray. “Now, let’s start the class, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As closing words, I should say I'm surprised I've gotten some people interested in whatever the hell this story is. It's short and very... out there, but you know what? It's how I roll.  
> I spent a month on the last chapter due to other projects taking over (the 2nd chapter of STTL, a big fic I'm working on atm, some uni crap...), which was unprecedented, but at least it didn't take 2 years this time! Haleluyah.  
> Of course, this isn't the end of Cheren's shenanigans, as I have a lot planned for him and the school. I didn't name a bunch of students for nothing, goddammit. I think I'll however tell these in oneshots, rather than multi-chaptered fics like this one. He's been a really cool character to speculate about. I hope I can get more canon peeps like Bianca in soon.


End file.
